


Stercorarius maccormicki

by Mugatu



Series: Wildlife Photographers AU [3]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, daryl is a gay disaster, oblivious to love, the one where they meet in Antarctica
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 01:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17498819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mugatu/pseuds/Mugatu
Summary: Paul Rovia meets the love of his life on a cargo plane that is speeding toward Antarctica, where both of them will be living and working for the next five months. Later, the love of his life will disagree with calling this their first meeting, saying it doesn’t count. They didn’t really “meet” after all, Daryl says, didn’t introduce themselves or say hello. It’s a matter of semantics and it’s not a hill that Paul chooses to die on. Paul knows that the real reason Daryl says it “doesn’t count” is because deep down his best beloved is a romantic; and hates that the first words he spoke to his future husband were, “Fucking watch where yer going, asshole.”Although it’s not like the next thing Daryl says to Paul—“Fuck d’you want?”—the following day is much better.





	1. Chapter 1

Paul Rovia meets the love of his life on a cargo plane that is speeding toward Antarctica, where both of them will be living and working for the next five months. Later, the love of his life will _disagree_ with calling this their first meeting, saying it doesn’t count. They didn’t really “meet”, after all, Daryl says, didn’t introduce themselves or say hello. It’s a matter of semantics and it’s not a hill that Paul chooses to die on. Paul knows that the real reason Daryl says it “doesn’t count” is because deep down his best beloved is a _romantic;_ and hates that the first words he spoke to his future husband were, “Fucking watch where yer going, asshole.”

Although it’s not like the next thing Daryl says to Paul—“Fuck d’you want?”—the following day is much better.

***************

Paul Rovia was vibrating with excitement as the C-17 took off from the runway in Christchurch. It was the fourth and final flight of his journey to Antarctica—Chicago to LA, LA to Sydney, Sydney to Christchurch—and it was finally sinking in that yes, this was actually happening. Everything had felt like a dream since he received his offer letter informing him that not only had he been hired but for the job he actually _wanted._ Jobs in Antarctica were hard to get, even menial positions like galley assistant or dishwasher. A job that would require occasional trips into the field were next to impossible unless you knew someone who knew someone or had several years experience on the ice. Yet after two seasons of applying and being rejected Paul was hired as a dive technician. He wouldn’t be allowed near the water despite his ice diving certification but he _would_ have to periodically go into the field camps surrounding McMurdo station on the frozen Ross Sea for equipment repair and replacement. He could hardly believe his luck, and was tempted to buy a lottery ticket while it washot.

The flight to McMurdo from New Zealand took five hours, and after the first hour about half the passengers—what Paul assumed were ice veterans—were snuggled up in their red parkas and sound asleep. Paul tried to follow their example but was too excited for sleep. He tried reading a book on his Kindle but was too scattered to concentrate, and the engines of the plane were too loud to start a conversation with the people on either side of him. He removed his own red parka and outer fleece layer then got up to explore the cargo bay wearing only windbreaker overalls and merino wool base layer shirt.

There wasn’t much to see; some crates of equipment, the faces of his fellow travelers. There were about forty passengers on his flight, and the ones he’d already chatted with in the departure lounge ran the gamut from veterans of the ice to newbies like himself and people in it for the adventure to people in it for the money. The pay was _shit_ for what he’d be doing but lodging and meals were covered; plus there was nothing at the station to spend money _on._ Paul did the math after signing his contract, and if he was careful over the next five months he would walk away with well over ten grand after taxes, a mind-boggling sum. Paul had already picked out the camera and lens he would spend the bulk of his earnings on; and if during his downtime over the next five months was able to shoot some quality images for his portfolio he was confident he’d be able to land a job when he returned from the ice.

Cargo hold inspected, Paul headed forward, in the front of the aircraft where there was a short flight of stairs leading into the cockpit. Paul hesitated at the foot of the stairs, thinking back to his first airplane flight. In those pre-9/11 days they let little kids into the cockpit to meet the pilots. Paul had felt wistful and melancholy watching the stewardess leading excited children to the front of the plane, although at seventeen he was supposed to be too old and cool for that sort of thing. He was about to head back to his seat when one of the flight crew came to get a cup of coffee from the galley tucked behind the stairs. Feeling foolish Paul tapped the guy on the shoulder then pointed to himself, then the cockpit steps, and raised his eyebrows in a question. The crew member nodded and gave him a thumbs up.

Paul ascended the steps, feeling a little giddy and a little foolish for feeling giddy. He stopped feeling foolish when he saw the stunning view from the flight deck—surrounded on three sides by large windows looking over the rich blue ocean. The pilots barely noticed him as he stared for several long minutes, enthralled. Some childish part of him kept trying to insist that everything should be upside down since they were flying to the bottom of the world. He remembered growing up, how he spent most nights staring at the ceiling of Kample House imagining all the places he’d travel to when he was an adult. Now here he was, the entire ocean spread out before him, going to literally the farthest place on the planet from that shitty group home with its institutional gray walls and indifferent staff. He smiled to himself, then turned around to head back over his seat.

Paul was still looking behind him at the cockpit, which was why he literally slammed into a guy getting a cup of coffee from the galley. The coffee went flying out of the guy’s hand and Paul instinctually jumped backward up the steps to avoid getting splashed. The other guy wasn’t so lucky, the coffee went all over the front of his red parka.

“Sorry! Shit!” Paul said, looking around for tissues or napkins. There was a roll of brown paper towel by the galley, Paul tore of a length and started frantically patting the guy down without much success. The guy glared at him. He was a few inches taller than Paul and looked to be in his mid thirties, handsome in a rough way with sharp cheekbones and messy dark hair hanging over narrow slate-blue eyes. As Paul flapped around him frantically the guy spat out loud enough to be heard over the roar of the engines, “Fucking watch where yer going, asshole.” He didn’t wait for Paul to reply, just stomped back to his seat.

“Um. Ok,” Paul said. Jeez, what a jerk. Getting coffee spilled on you wasn’t fun but it was an accident and the man’s parka protected him from actually getting burnt. Paul hoped he wouldn’t run into the guy again although it was probably inevitable. There was less than two thousand people on the entire continent and most of them were at McMurdo. Hard to get lost in a crowd.

***************

The first thing Paul learned when he stepped onto the ice at Pegasus Airfield was that he had no idea what “cold” meant. He thought he did, in fact would have called himself an _expert_ on cold after growing up in Chicago, going to college in the U.P., and diving—often wet—in the Great Lakes for the past decade. Antarctica taught him quickly what real cold was.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Paul gasped. He had on four layers of extreme cold weather gear and still shivered. The cold felt _angry_ , and dryer than anything he’d ever experienced before. He briefly wondered just what the hell he’d gotten himself into then took a look around him. The skies were clear and a blue so intense it didn’t look real, even behind his sun glasses. The airfield was a glossy expanse of ice, flattened for the aircraft but beyond had rippled patterns that resembled an ocean on a calm day. Which, Paul reminded himself, was what it was. He was standing on a frozen sheet of ice that went down two hundred meters and beneath that was nothing but ocean. He could see Ross Island dominated by Mount Erebus, the volcano had a plume of puffy white smoke curling into the air.

 _This is so awesome,_ Paul thought himself, forgetting the cold as excitement bubbled through him.

*********************

The cold did its best to remind him of its existence as he and his fellow passengers waited for the shuttle that would take them the rest of the distance to McMurdo. After about fifteen minutes Paul spotted the shape of a bright red bus on enormous wheels trundling toward them across the ice. Every meter closer the bus got more and more massive, and when it pulled in front of them Paul saw that the tires came up to his chin. On the side of the bus were the words “Ivan the Terra Bus”.

Ivan’s doors slid open and a ramp descended. “Hi!” the driver called out, “You folks need a ride?” The group quickly queued up to get on the bus and its promised warmth. The line moved slowly, people storing gear in the overhead bins. When Paul reached the entrance of the bus he saw the driver was a pretty woman with tan skin, black hair, and an infectious smile. “Welcome to Antarctica!” she said, holding her fist up in greeting to each passenger that climbed aboard. “I’m Tara, this is my Terra Bus.” A few passengers groaned at the pun but Paul laughed and bumped her raised fist with his own. She wore a purple hat with a pin of a double-sided axe on the brim, and Paul froze. The line started moving but Paul slid in the seat behind her.

“Hey,” Tara said, “this usually works better if we load the back seats first.”

“Sorry,” Paul said, “I…uh, I just wanted to tell you I like your pin. A lot.”

“You do?” she said, craning her head and sliding her sunglasses down her nose to take a closer look at him.

“Yeah,” Paul said, pushing his own sunglasses to the top of his head. He dropped his eyes to where his hands were twisting against his thighs and prayed she was in fact a lesbian and not just a straight girl with an axe fetish, “Um. I’ve just heard some conflicting stories about…uh, wearing pins down here. Especially if you’re a guy who wears pins.”

“What are you…oh. _Oh._ Gotcha, gotcha,” Tara said, smiling that infectious smile at him. Paul smiled back. She tapped a finger against her temple, “This is my third season, I can fill you in on all the ins and outs of pin wearing. Not now, I gotta do my thing. But later at the welcome dinner, come find me, ok? I’m Tara Chambler, by the way.” She twisted around in her seat to offer him her hand.

“Paul Rovia,” he said, taking her offered hand. He was grinning stupidly, he really should have bought that lottery ticket, his luck for this trip kept getting better. The remaining passengers filed past them, out of the corner of his eye Paul registered the jerk from the plane. He was glaring _daggers_ at Paul, not even being a little bit subtle about it. Fuck him, Paul was too relieved to worry about overreacting jerks who couldn’t let accidents go. He’d been worried finding his fellow gays down here would be a challenge but literally the first person he met was a lesbian. Tara smiled back at him look just as happy to have found him.

“Nice to meet you, Paul. Now I can mentally stop calling you ‘Jesus’.”

Paul gave a surprised snort and studied his reflection in the mirror above the driver’s seat. He needed a haircut now that he had the beard, he really did look like White Jesus with it. The beard needed to stay, he still got carded with it but none of the bartenders insisted his ID was a fake. Another bonus was he got less creepy older guys who were _way_ too into how young he looked. Finally it was just too fucking cold here and every little bit of insulation helped. Tara’s Terra Bus rolled across the ice and Paul leaned forward, taking in the pristine white expanses and filled with certainty this trip was the start of something amazing.


	2. Chapter 2

The galley was located in the same building that Paul spent the majority of his first day in Antarctica. It was a blur new employee orientation, housing assignments, and signing up for Snow School. Almost everything important was located in building 155—the store, the library, post office—so Paul was unamused to find himself assigned to the dorms farthest away. After he dropped his luggage off at his room he headed straight back to building 155, cold biting him through his layers of ECW. He could see this getting very old very fast. He couldn’t even take comfort in the fact the dive shack was closer to his dorm—all meals were served in the galley, so it just meant he’d have to trudge to 155 for breakfast then all the way back for work.

He supposed his Antarctic luck had to run out sooner or later, but as he hiked to the galley for dinner he couldn’t help but feel jealous about all the people assigned to the rooms right across from or even _in_ 155\. Especially give that McMurdo was straight up ugly-looking, more like a mining camp than a research center, and walking through the muddy streets in the freezing cold was demoralizing. So was the sight of the massive queue for the galley, he scanned it for Tara of the Terra bus and didn’t see her so went to the end of the line.

He perked up a little after he got his food—the queue was long but it moved quickly—and saw Tara sitting at an empty table waving him over.

“Hey, Jesus,” she said, “Wow, did you get enough food?”

Paul’s cheeks flushed, he knew she didn’t mean anything by it but he was still embarrassed to be called out. This was one of the reasons he hated cafeteria style dining, the temptation to load his plate with more food than he could eat was overwhelming. So was the urge to shove his pockets full of food and hoard it somewhere hidden in his room. “My eyes were bigger than my stomach,” Paul said, “It looks surprisingly tasty.”

“Oh, welcome dinner and the holidays they bust out the good stuff, it’s shit most of the season, though. How’s your first day been?”

“OK, got the spiel from our Overlords about the glorious mission of science, found my dorm.”

“Hotel California,” Paul replied.

“ _Ugh,_ poor you, Hotel and Mammoth are the worst. I hope you brought earplugs unless you’re into hearing your neighbors going at it.”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” Paul said, “But I did bring earplugs.”

“Good, good. Now, about pin-wearing—oooh look, there’s Glenn! Glenn!” she said, waving over a very handsome Asian guy about Paul’s age. Tara must’ve seen the way Paul’s eyes lit up because she immediately said, “Slow your roll there, tiger. Glenn tragically does not wear pins. He is an excellent ally for those of us that do, though.”

“Pins?” Glenn said, blinking at Tara as he sat down next to her.

“Code word for being gay,” Tara replied.

“Why are we calling it wearing pins,” Glenn said slowly.

“I saw her labrys pin on the bus,” Paul replied, “We don’t have to keep calling it that.”

“Good…because I’m confused enough. Oh my god, is those apples fresh? Can I have one?” He gestured at one of the two apples Paul had loaded on his tray. Paul forced himself to smile and push his tray over, reminding himself again and again he could go back for more whenever he wanted.

“Thanks, man,” Glenn said. He didn’t eat the apple at first, just cradled it to his chest and closed his eyes with bliss. When he opened his eyes he squinted at Paul and said, “Wait, who are you? Did Tara introduce us? I can’t remember.” The guy seemed almost stoned.

“You have to forgive Glenn,” Tara said with a smile, “He wintered over this year; I’ve done it before and you go a little nuts. He’ll feel better in a few weeks. Glenn, this is Paul Rovia, but his friends call him Jesus.”

“No one calls me that.”

“I do; and we’re friends now,” Tara said, “It will be easier for Glenn to remember until he recovers from the winter.”

“Yes,” Glenn said, biting into the apple and closing his eyes, “You just get used to being alone, it’s dark for an entire month, you can’t go outside much, then all these new people show up and you’re all very loud and orange.”

“Orange?” Paul said, glancing down at himself. He’d gotten a bit of sun during his stopover in New Zealand but he wouldn’t go so far to call himself _orange._

“Very orange,” Glenn said.

“Fair enough,” Paul replied, “Um. So what do you do?”

“Field safety and training,” Glenn said, “I’m the guy who shows the fingees how not to die when they step outside.”

“‘Fingee’?” Paul asked.

“Fucking new guys,” Glenn said.

“Or girls!” Tara added in.

“Oh, will you be teaching Snow School?” Paul asked, “I’m signed up for the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes, I have until then for my brain to come back online.”

“Poor Glenn, all the fingees overwhelming him. Speaking of, how’s your roommate situation this season? You get someone cool? Or has he not showed up yet?”

Glenn gave a dreamy smile, “I met my new roommate. I thought he might be another winter over, maybe from Pole because I don’t recognize him, but I think he’s a feengee like Jesus.He’s wonderful.”

“What’s his name?” Tara asked.

“I don’t know,” Glenn said happily.

“Where does he work?” Paul asked.

“I have no idea,” Glenn said, giving another dreamy smile, “He hasn’t said anything to me yet, just nodded when I came in. I love him.”

Tara laughed, “Thinking of buying your first pin?”

“‘Pin’?” Glenn said, confused, “Someone was telling me that was the new code for being gay—“

“I did, ten minutes ago,” Tara said, giving Glenn a sympathetic pat.

“Fuck,” Glenn said, “I’m never doing another winter over.”

“I’m very glad I didn’t get the year long contract the first time I applied,” Paul said. Being trapped in this station for months while in the dark sounded like absolute hell but he thought he could take it plus get some amazing shots of aurora australis and the night sky. Looking at Glenn now and it really didn’t seem worth it.

“You never know,” Tara said, “But going back to pin wearing, you are very wise to seek out my guidance. It can be a little tricky down here, especially if you’re a guy. No one’s going to hassle you for it, most people are pretty open-minded if they’re coming down here. But like you said earlier, it can be tricky.”

“Go on,” Paul said, feeling glum.

“Well, you’re not alone,” Tara said, “There are some gay guys down here, but most fellow queers of McMurdo are lesbians. There’s a saying among the women in Antarctica, ‘the odds are good, but the goods are odd.’ And there’s a saying among the men, too. ‘What’s the best way to get a girlfriend in Antarctica? Be a woman.’”

“Gotcha,” Paul said;he’d expected as much. Just in terms of sheer population percentage there should be a few dozen gay guys here at McMurdo but _finding_ them would be tricky. He had already resigned himself to the possibility he’d have to spend the next five months celibate and wished he’d gotten laid before leaving Christchurch.

Tara continued, “While you’re not alone and the _official_ company line is diversity—“

“Yeah, so many different flavors of white people,” Glenn muttered with an ironic tilt to his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I noticed that,” Paul said, shifting uncomfortably, “There’s more white people here than in the U.P. That’s the—“

“Upper Peninsula,” Glenn interrupted, coming briefly alive, “You’re a Yooper?”

“An honorary one, I went to college at Lake Superior University, but I’m from Chicago originally. Are you a Michigander?”

“Grew up outside of Detroit.”

“So you mean you’re a troll,” Paul said with a smile.

“ _Ahem,_ ” Tara said, “You two can bond in Midwestern code once I have finished telling Jesus how to stay out of trouble. As I was saying, diversity is the official line. _Unofficially_ there was an incident a few seasons ago where one of the DAs tried to buy this guy he met at Southern a drink. Guy was straight; but instead of saying, ’not interested’ he went to HR and complained about being ‘sexually harassed’. The DA got fired.”

“Really?” Paul said, “That’s some serious bullshit.”

“ _Such_ bullshit,” Tara agreed, “if every straight man who hit on _me_ even though I’m not interested got sent home there’d be no one left. But anyway, be careful.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Paul said. He _definitely_ was going to be celibate while he was here; just not worth making a pass at the wrong guy and getting sent home. Telephoto lenses didn’t pay for themselves and Paul _needed_ the money from this job. He could only coast on his photography competition wins for so long, he needed to actually get hired for a job and to do that he needed equipment and a stronger portfolio. No guy was worth putting that into jeopardy.

The rest of dinner passed in pleasant conversation carried mostly by Tara and Paul, with occasional scattered commentary from Glenn that grew more frequent as the conversation went on. They gave him a crash course on Antarctic life—the slang, how to navigate the bureaucracy, and the extra curricular activities planned.

“Halloween is the big one,” Tara said, “First real party of the season, all the newbies have finally arrived. They _try_ to do Christmas but it’s more sad than anything else. Next big thing is IceStock after New Year’s.”

“That’s our music festival,” Glenn said, before Paul can ask. “Live bands, but it’s mostly an excuse to drink. Tara and I did a set last year and it was a blast,” he looked at Paul hopefully, “I don’t suppose you play anything? Or sing?”

“I can play a little guitar and sing, but not at the same time,” Paul said reluctantly. He usually only did the latter when he was drunk or it was karaoke night during Pride even though he’d been told he had a good voice.

“ _Yes,”_ Glenn said, “If we can find someone for percussion we can try to do ‘Under Pressure’ this year _.”_

 _“_ The fact that you have the hubris to think you can do Freddie will be your undoing,” Tara said airily.

“I’m not going to try to do Freddie, I’m going to try to do me. I need someone to do Bowie, though.”

Paul squirmed, “I don’t know about that. I don’t really…in front of people, you know?”

“Don’t worry, it’s just for fun. What happens on the ice stays on the ice, and everyone will be bored and drunk,” Tara

Paul still wanted to refuse, but he liked both of them too much. He was bad at making—or keeping, rather—new friends. Getting close to people. Knowing that after five months he’d never see either of them ever again took some of the pressure off; there’d be no awkward invitations to family dinner or digging around in his past. “Yeah, ok. I can give it a go. No promises.”

“Awesome,” Glenn said with a yawn. He shook his head, “I need to crash soon.”

“Me too,” Paul said. The day was catching up with him, he was exhausted and needed a shower.

“Boo,” Tara said, “I was wanting to go get drinks at Southern.”

“Raincheck?” Paul said.

“I guess. Losers.”

The three of them left together. Glenn and Tara were in dorms right across from 155 much to Paul’s envy. It was late but the sun was still in the sky, making the distant mountains and bay glitter. Before they said their goodbyes Glenn gave Paul his room number and told him to drop by in the morning if he was free. “I should be in before breakfast, we can see what we sound like doing our best Freddie Mercury and David Bowie.”

“I make no promises as to the qu— _JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”_ Paul shouted the last bit because out of nowhere a large, mottled brown bird dived down at him. It screamed at him and snapped at his pocket where he'dhad been unable to resist shoving in a bagel to eat later. Paul was so caught off guard he could do nothing but flail at it and yell. Glenn and Tara came to his aid, flapping their arms and yelling for the bird to fuck off. Having lost the element of surprise and confronted with three people the bird gave a final scream and retreated.

Paul looked at Tara and Glenn and the two of them burst out laughing.

“What the fuck was that?” Paul said. He thought he was going to have a coronary.

“A skua,” Tara said between gales of laughter, “It’s kinda like a seagull—“

“I know,” Paul said, heart starting to slow. He was starting to see the humor in what had jus happened, “I looked up all the wildlife before I came, I just…well, I didn’t pay much attention to those guys.”

“Pirates with wings,” Glenn snorted, “They’ll steal _anything._ I’ve seen them swallow penguin chicks whole, watch out for them.”

“Will do,” Paul said, giving a shaky laugh. He was _definitely_ done for the day. He said his goodbyes to Tara and Glenn and hurried to his dorm, watching the sky nervously the entire time.

************************

Paul woke up the following morning to bright sunlight and a strange guy on the other side of the room unpacking a suitcase. Paul jerked upright, confused for a moment as to where the fuck he was before he woke up completely and remembered. Antarctica. McMurdo Station. Hotel California, and Tara had been _right_ when she told him he needed ear plugs, he thought he could hear his neighbors farting if he weren’t wearing them.

“Shit man,” the guy said, “I’m sorry; didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m Kal, by the way.”

Right. His roommate, “It’s cool. I’m Paul Rovia,” he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, “But my friends call me Jesus.”

Kal laughed, and apologized again for waking him. Paul waved him off; he was hoping to catch Glenn before breakfast anyway. He dressed quickly and told Kal he’d talk to him more later and it was nice to meet him before setting off.

In addition to being closer to 155 Glenn’s building was newer and seemed to be soundproof as Paul padded down the hallway. When he reached Glenn’s room there was a sign that informed Paul that the occupants were on the day shift. He knocked on the door; and got nothing but silence. He frowned, wondering if Glenn had already gone down to breakfast. He raised his hand to knock again when the door opened. Paul opened his mouth to say hello but no sound came out, because it wasn’t Glenn who answered.

Standing in front of him was the Jerk from the Plane, who stared at him in shock before his features re-arranged into the mother of all bitch faces. Paul only registered that bit briefly, because Jerk from the Plane was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a black undershirt.

 _Arms,_ Paul thought, followed closely by _shoulders._

On the plane the guy had been dressed in his ECW, the red parka and layers of thermal concealing his body shape. Which was a fucking _crime,_ someone should be going to jail for making this guy wear anything with sleeves. He had shoulders for miles, the most perfect arms he’d ever seen, narrow hips, and while no gym rat had muscular torso. Paul caught a hint of the guy’s dick outlined in the fitted boxers before catching himself. He’d thought that Jerk from the plane had been handsome if nothing particularly special, especially since he was rude as fuck. Paired with the body, however, Jerk from the Plane crossed over from “ok” well into “hot as hell.”

“Fuck d’you want?” the guy growled after several long moments where Paul stood there with his mouth open.

“Um,” Paul said, “I’m looking for Glenn. Glenn Rhee.”

“He ain’t here,” Hot-as-Hell-Jerk said.

“Ok. Um. Thanks. I guess he’s at breakfast, sorry if I woke you.”

Hot Jerk glared at him without answering and shut the door in his face. Paul stood there blinking at the closed door then let out an unsteady breath. He gave his head a shake and headed for the galley and breakfast. He’d have to be sure Glenn Rhee’s roommate was gone before he tried coming over again, he was just too gay to deal with this shit.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to anyone familiar with living and working in Antarctica, I take a lot of liberties in this fic (I straight up invented Paul's job and he's right that there's no way he'd get it without any ice time or friends in high places, but whatevers)


End file.
